A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,52

was really something.

When we were finished, Ryder and Gideon talked a moment before Gideon turned to me.

“You must have a boy to watch your cattle. I know such a boy. Would you come with us to where I live?”

I accepted, and we set out on what turned out to be a long and dusty walk.

Ryder seemed to have recovered a little of his good humour and as we trudged through the bush, Gideon spoke. “Bwana, this is a thing that I know...” It was a game they played when they were out walking, Gideon told me. It always began with one of them saying, “This is a thing that I know,” followed by some truth, a fact or bit of philosophy. Then the other took his turn, either arguing the point or contributing something of his own.

“Would you care to play, Bibi?” Gideon asked. “I will start. This is a thing that I know—that the droppings of two animals will disturb the cattle—the lion and the ostrich.”

“The lion I can well believe, but the ostrich? Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Gideon assured me. “The ostrich is no friend to the cattle. Now, you must tell us a thing that you know.”

“Very well. This is a thing that I know—that Ryder saved my life by shooting a buffalo on the drive to Fairlight.”

Ryder’s head came up sharply, and Gideon stopped. “Bwana, how big was this buffalo?”

Ryder didn’t look at him, but kept his eyes fixed on mine. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “The spread of the horns was over four feet.”

“That is very, very big, Bwana,” Gideon pronounced. “It is an excellent thing that you saved Bibi’s life.”

Still Ryder didn’t look away. “We saved each other,” he said quietly. Then he turned sharply on his heel and stalked away.

Gideon and I followed, and Gideon called ahead. “Bwana, this is a thing that I know—that you carry many poems in your mind. Will you speak one for us?”

Ryder shook his head, never slackening his pace. “Not now.”

I leaned closer to Gideon. “He writes poetry?”

“Oh, no, Bibi. He remembers the poems that other men have written. He carries them in his head, and sometimes he speaks them.”

I couldn’t quite take it in. I stared ahead at the broad back, the rifle slung over his shoulder, the glint of gold in the rings in his ears. “No, really. Ryder recites poetry?”

Gideon nodded. “And the periodic table of elements. I have learned only as far as rubidium. I have much left to know.”

I was still trying to get my head around the idea of Ryder with a head full of poetry and Gideon learning the periodic table when we arrived at a small village so primitive it was like something out of the Stone Age. A wide-open area under some acacia trees had been cordoned off with great bundles of thorn.

“To keep the cattle safe from the lion,” Gideon informed me.

I nodded. “It makes sense. I ought to do the same around the pasture I’m clearing at Fairlight.”

“The barn will be all that is required, so long as you have a good boy to watch the cows,” he said. “A good boy who will not fall asleep and let the lion steal in and take what does not belong to him.”

He led us into the enclosure of the boma and to a mud hut. It looked black as pitch inside, and Gideon stood in the doorway, calling respectfully to the occupant. After a moment there was a dry, shuffling sound, like the rustling of autumn leaves, and an elderly man came to the doorway. He was wearing the Masai toga—which Gideon had told me was called a kanja—and several slender leather thongs looped about his neck. They were beaded, as were the heavy ornaments in his ears, and perched on the tip of his nose were a pair of thick, round spectacles, giving him the look of a curious owl. In spite of the warmth of the day, he was wrapped in a sort of cloak of long, greyish fur.

He lifted his hands to Gideon’s strong shoulders and spoke to him in rapid Maa. Gideon returned the greeting, and the old man did the same to Ryder, holding his head briefly in his withered hands. Gideon turned to me.

“Bibi, this is my babu, my grandfather. He is a respected elder amongst my people.”

Ryder was at my side. “The babu speaks only a little Swahili, but he will understand your greeting of ‘shikamoo.’ A